


No Rest for the Wicked

by Meimi



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 3.0 endgame spoilers, I blame Alphinaud for being a teenager, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:46:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meimi/pseuds/Meimi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the same every night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Rest for the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't finished the MSQ for 3.0, then you may not want to read this. There are brief, but specific, spoilers for events at the end.

It always, _always_ started the same. He'd return to his quarters, exhaustion nipping at his heels, more than ready for blessed slumber. A perfect repeat of nearly every single night he'd spent in Ishgard to date. But then, once he'd close the door behind him, everything changed. Alphinaud was no longer alone in his room, and rest was the furthest thing from his mind.

Strong, steady fingers wrapped around his upper arms, pulling him back against a familiar, solid body. Sometimes the dragoon still wore his armor, other times not. It didn't really matter. Such things were of little consequence in the moment. All that mattered were those fingers slipping around his front and the hot breath at his ear, murmuring all the things he wanted to do to him, all the things he _would_ do to him. Sometimes he remembered being divested of his clothing, sometimes even making a game out of uncovering his skin for the other's pleasure, other times he did not. He always remembered the bed: the feel of being pressed down into the cool sheets, his own body overheated from the heady attention. Of course, there were time when they didn't even make it to the bed, and he well remembered the feel of the bitter cold stone floor as it bit into him. All in all, he preferred the bed. It was more comfortable, and there were no distractions. 

There were always kisses. Sometimes slow and languid. Sometimes too much and too fast. Teeth nipping at him, a tongue that would devour him whole if it could, and lips that would touch every part of him before the night was through. Breathing swiftly became difficult. Keeping his thoughts straight even more so. Not that thought mattered much either. Touch, yes. Sensation, more so. Teeth at his ear, more words, the voice huskier now, then that tongue sliding up his earlobe to the tip, another nip, and then he would be reminded that the other had more than just his mouth on him. Fingers traced up his sides, then down again. Slowly at first, barely a touch, but as time passed and those lips began their descent, that touch would become more insistent. Down to his hips, a steady grip there, but only for a moment, then back up and across his chest to tease at his nipples and he would recall that it was not just maids who found such attention stimulating. Teeth at his neck, not quite as gentle anymore. A sharp bite. Meant to mark. Followed by tongue and lips, laving over that which teeth had left throbbing. Those fingers tweaking his nipples, eliciting a gasp from him that he could not hope to hold back. The dragoon would smile at him then, dark and full of promise, well pleased with his work. A moment's respite only. There and gone again in the blink of an eye. 

The hands moved to his shoulders, pressing him down further and holding him still as the mouth took their place. Lips and tongue and teeth at one nipple and then the next, giving each far more attention than was ever needed until they ached with something far more than pain. Dimly during all of this, his foggy mind would register a knee nudging his thighs apart as it settled inbetween them. Somewhere in there the hands would release him and travel back down his sides, alighting upon his hips again and staying there. They flexed against his skin, perhaps unconsciously, or perhaps with determination. The tongue would follow soon after, a wet, slick slide down his middle, across his stomach, and further. 

He was already painfully hard. Of course, he was. He'd been erect long before he even lost his clothing. The dragoon knew what he was doing and he, himself, was hardly a blushing virgin. Not at this point. Not after so many nights in the company of another. It was still a shock when that mouth wrapped around him though, tongue swirling along his length. The dragoon did not waste time here. Not now. Sweet suction and wet heat and he was drowning. Too fast. Too much. Always too much. A keening whine drawn out of him, followed by a vibration around him, another reminder that he was of great amusement to the dragoon. In more ways than one. There was never a reprieve, the other would have his release and was doggedly relentless in pursuit of it. Always, always, licking and sucking and every obscene sound imaginable to go with it until he was a quivering, boneless mass upon whatever surface they'd managed to reach. 

It didn't stop there. Of course not, why would it? He wasn't here for just a "little wank", after all. One goal had been achieved, now it was time for another. Those lascivious lips would release him, tongue swiping across a thoroughly pleased and predatory smirk. The hands would stop their incessant kneading, sliding down to his knees, lifting his legs, spreading them wantonly, and tilting his pelvis up as if for a detailed inspection. And then the dragoon would lean down again, tongue teasing at his sac, before trailing down even further. Whatever thoughts he might have entertained at this point would blank out, his mind short-circuiting as that treacherous tongue lapped gently at his hole. Lightly at first, just a teasing touch, then more and more, harder, more insistent, pushing against him, _into_ him. His toes curled, his fingers spasmed, his breath came out in short, heavy gasps. He was hard again. Impossible not to be. Played too well and too expertly to not respond exactly how _he_ wanted. 

Eventually, the dragoon would have his fill. It was always too soon and not soon enough, as far as Alphinaud was concerned. But regardless, that insane heat would leave him and his legs would be allowed to slump back down. Boneless still, even more so, really. Another impossible thing he couldn't avoid. Another smile then, darker and more knowing as solid need was rubbed against his thighs. The tongue wasn't the only thing that would have him this night. And every other night. Oil was produced then, from where, he was never really certain. Nor did that even matter either. Poured across those strong, calloused fingers, so much that it dripped down onto him and the surface below. Slick, slick fingers sliding down, mimicking the path of that expert tongue, and then pushing into him. There was no gentleness here, but neither was there an aim to cause pain, just eagerness, implacable and always, always wanting. The invasion was uncomfortable at best, a twinging ache at worst. He was beyond caring about the pain, at any rate. Just more more more. More oil. More stretching. Until it was enough. 

Then flesh was pushing into him. Too big. Too hard. Too hot. Too fast. Too much. So much of him. In him. It hurt. It ached. And all other words that failed him. And he wanted more. And managed to say as much. Another smile directed his way. Beyond pleased. Knowing. Movement. In him. Deeper and deeper. Harder. Quick and slow. Never enough of a steady rhythm for him to latch onto long enough to string his mind back into some semblance of order. His only purpose was to feel. And take. And take he did. Every thrust, every slide of too slick flesh within him. Sometimes he would manage to hold out until the dragoon was finished. Other times he would lose himself far, far too soon. Their destination was always the same though. Sometimes there were languid kisses after, and sometimes he would be ridden again. Hard. Slow. Fast. Gentle. Whatever crossed _his_ mind at the time would be enacted. 

It was overwhelming. 

And also mortifying. It happened every night. And it was ridiculous. Alphinaud didn't even want to contemplate what the maids thought of the mess he made of his sheets every single night. Because, of course, they were just dreams. Only dreams. Very vivid, completely and utterly stupid dreams concocted by an overactive mind who had read damn well too much over the course of all of his "studies". And damn Estinien and his glib tongue for igniting such a ridiculous fantasy within him. Once they had rescued the fiend from Nidhogg (And they would!), Alphinaud was going to kick his ass. Or stare at him balefully. Or something. 

Yes. Something. 

In the meantime, he had something far more pressing to deal with. Because, of course, he couldn't get away with just making a mess out of his sheets when he was asleep. Oh no. Morning wood and all that. No rest for the wicked. Or the stupid. 

But at least he could masturbate in peace. 

Fuck Azure Dragoons. 

Maybe. 

Literally. 

Possibly. 

He could dream. He already had that down pat.


End file.
